


How Does Your Garden Grow?

by zempasuchil



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-09-03
Updated: 2009-09-03
Packaged: 2017-10-18 13:17:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/189265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zempasuchil/pseuds/zempasuchil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lithuania has gained independence from Russia in 1918, and America decides he’d be a great guy to outsource to. But that barely scratches the surface. It's a special relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How Does Your Garden Grow?

"Hey," America says as they walk away from the bargaining table. "How's it going?"

The little brown-haired guy looks at him with huge eyes. Like he's surprised America's noticed him.

"I don't bite," he says, sticking out a hand. "It's America. Sorry, but I don't think I caught your name in the middle of all that negotiation. Crazy stuff, you know - of course you know, between Germany and Russia." America smiles lopsidedly but the little guy winces and shrinks up even more. America didn't think it was possible to get more diminutive. His hand is still outstretched. Before he can say _Don't leave me hanging,_ the kid (is he a kid? he's small but he doesn’t look that young) finally extends his own hand and meets America's clasp.

Automatically America squeezes - his firm handshake is a point of pride, it's important to let the other guy know that just because you're nice doesn't mean you'll be pushed around - and though the little guy winces he doesn't let go. His grip is strong.

"So what's your name again?" America asks. He hears a mumble. "Sorry?"

"Lithuania," he says, lifting his head.

"Well, it's nice to meet you. I've gotta go now, but I'll see you soon! We should talk, you know; I think we could help each other out."

Lithuania raises his eyebrows but before he can say anything, America is striding away on his long, lean legs.

-

"So," Lithuania says, hands behind his back, standing on America’s porch in the afternoon light looking rather less pale than he did before. "I've been thinking about what you said."

America waits, leaning on the doorknob. He waits a little longer. "And...?" he finally says.

"I'd be happy to, to set up trade relations." He gives a strained smile and America grins back.

"That's great! I was sure I could help you, and you know since it's trade you're helping me too, so it's a win-win situation, right? I just know you're going to do great here. Come in!"

Lithuania looks a little disarmed at this, as though he were expecting something more formal, but that’s not America’s style. Still, now he finally really looks America in the eye, and steps forward into the doorway

"Welcome," America says, opening the door into his well-furnished house, "to the land of the free and the home of the brave."

It's a sing-song declaration, and Lithuania might have cracked a smile.

-

America's boss finds the door open when he arrives, so he lets himself in. He knows America is unlikely to mind if he just waits here in the entryway for a moment.

Suddenly he notices a young man at the end of the hallway, sweeping the wooden floor.

"Excuse me," Harding says, tipping his hat to get the other's attention. "Is Mr. America at home?"

The youth jumps when he looks up.

"I'm sorry to give you a shock. The door was open, and I thought I'd let myself in."

"It's..." He shakes himself, and goes back to sweeping. "It's all right,” he says with downcast eyes. "Mr. America will be right down. He's expecting you."

"Thank you. I don't mean to be rude, but I've never seen you here, and I don't recognize your accent. Where are you from?"

"Europe," and, almost an afterthought, "Lithuania." Having moved closer in the course of his cleaning, Harding can now see the tired circles under his eyes and the worn state of his shoes.

"Ah, so you're one of the industrious Lithuanians we're helping to rebuild! Welcome!"

Stopping his work again, the young man stares at the President. Their incongruous positions are rather painfully evident to the nation, but the President smiles innocuously. "I'm not a Lithuanian," he says, furrowing his eyebrows. Suddenly he doesn't look so pathetic there with his broom and inkstained fingers and dark circles under his eyes, and America's boss shivers. "I'm Lithuania."

Just like that, America thunders down the stairs, and their conversation has ended.

-

Poland always knew this, apparently, and he laughs when he hears the story. He visits Chicago a lot (to see family, he says, just like Lithuania), so America has plenty of opportunities to talk to him. One Saturday evening they have dinner at Szałas, America's treat.

"Yeah, like, I know he's pretty lame these days, cleaning up other people's messes, being bossed around and stuff, but he's had a totally rough time between Prussia and Russia so he needs the downtime. He's older than you, you know, even if he doesn't always act like it."

"You guys go back a while?"

Poland laughs and snorts a little. "Dude, we, like, ruled Europe together. You should ask Prussia about it sometime, if you want your head totally bitten off. Yeah, we go way back, we were _so_ awesome."

"What happened?"

It's like someone just turned off a lamp inside Poland's head. He sure isn't laughing anymore; his expression is frigid. Glaring down at his dinner, he takes a bite of blood sausage.

"Sorry," America says. "Thanks for the kielbasa."

"No prob," Poland says, his tone not unfriendly.

-

"Why do you flinch all the time? I'm not going to hit you." Lithuania smiles blandly at America and keeps chopping carrots. "I'm not running a gulag here, you know."

His knife slips and he nearly cuts himself.

America sighs and takes it out of his hands. "No," he says when Lithuania protests. "I can do it. You don't have to do everything around here."

"I'm just earning my way," Lithuania says.

America shakes his head and resumes the chopping.

-

Lithuania is washing the dishes one evening, has the water running hot and strong, has the radio turned up loud, and according to what America told him over morning coffee he isn't expecting America home till late that night.

So when he closes his eyes and strong arms suddenly wrap around his waist and lift him into the air, his immediate reaction is to flail and swing the soapy pan around in the general direction of his attacker.

"Whoa there!" America says, and Lithuania yelps, "What are you doing?! Let - agh!" and America spins him around in a circle and sets him down. Lithuania is breathless but he's not holding the pan up anymore. Gold, bright gold, he was just thinking of – but no.

"What – what was that for?"

America just stands there grinning. "Gotcha!"

"You scared me!"

"Well, that's the point, right? Aw come on Lithuania, I'm just playing around."

He sets the pan in the sink.

Still smiling, America shucks his jacket off and hangs it on the back of a chair, rolls up his shirtsleeves, and starts helping with the dishes. Lithuania has protested this time and time again and in response he's always gotten the same _equality_ speech from America, so this time he doesn't say anything. He thinks maybe America feels guilty, about the sneak attack.

"You're home early," he says.

"Yeah, turns out my President got called away on something else, some business thing, so we had to postpone our meeting. Rude, kind of, shunting off a meeting with your own nation. But when duty calls..."

His voice sounds sad. Lithuania bumps his elbow trying to reach the soap, and says, "Sorry," but America doesn't seem to have noticed.

"But it's all right," he says, brightening a little. "Means I get to come home early and eat dinner with you." Lithuania blushes.

"It's not ready yet... since you're early."

"That's all right. Hey, if I take over the dishes, you can get it started now, right?"

"You really don't have to -"

America's stomach growls, and he makes an embarrassed face.

"Of course," Lithuania smiles, and starts chopping the carrots.

-

After all, freedom isn't free (America is fond of saying that around his birthday, and around Memorial Day, and around Veterans Day, really a lot of the time) and Lithuania knows it. He might not be living in fear or Moscow, but for all America's talk about independence he sure isn't keen on giving up any of his territories.

"Of course I don't own you," America says. Lithuania thinks otherwise. What else does all the money he's poured into the little country mean? It's not free, either. Nothing's free.

Nothing (he dusts the china tea set with a cotton rag) is free.

-

In the evenings after Lithuania has finished cleaning, he listens to the radio with America while America sips his whiskey, and on Sundays he tends his own little patch of garden out there where America grows carrots and potatoes. First, he plants poppies, which grow well. Then, shepherd’s purse, and then violas, and then peonies when he finds one growing wild. He tends and watches until they get big, and brings the biggest one or two in on occasion to put in a vase by the armchair. America expresses his surprise, says, "What a great idea! I can't believe I never thought of this! It brings in such a nice sunny touch." And when the flowers begin to wilt, he brings home an armload of huge brightly-colored flowers from the florist's shop, shoving them under Lithuania's nose with a grin. The tender flesh of rose petals against his cheek is soft like lips.

America jaunts off to stick them in vases and mugs all over the house before Lithuania can regain the presence of mind to do anything. He shakes his head to see the various unmatched blooms sticking out of every corner, and one by one takes each bouquet to the sink, removes the flowers, and trims the stems before putting them back where they came from. But he smiles, he can't help but smile.

-

"You never talk about it."

"What?"

"The Old Country." Lithuania makes a noise not unlike a snort. America raises his eyebrows. "What?"

"Nothing," he says. "It's just, it's been a while since I had anything worth reminiscing about." His tone is light but the words are heavy.

"You never talk about him, either. About then, I mean."

Lithuania stops. He straightens, rigid. "I think I'll water the garden. The roses looked particularly dry." Before America can say anything, he leaves abruptly.

-

He does remember, though. He remembers the weight of the sickle, the hot sun on his back and the chilly blue sky above. When autumn meant harvest, and winter was living off stored grain, and spring was planting, and summer was hoeing. Now there is no season to his work. The snowflakes outside the window only mean no more flowers in his garden.

There was something more though. In the winter he dreams of golden barley fields scattered with poppies, and a hand in his. The prickle of stalks through his linen shirt lying there under the hot sun and under the weight of his body, gold everywhere, brushing his face. And then he is in bed and the light is white but the gold is there still, tickling his ear warm under the layers of blankets, and they have a house and it is theirs, both of theirs, and they live together.

He wakes up and the land isn't gone, but everything feels smaller and dustier, somehow. Dim, and almost less real than the dream. But this waking world hurts, and that is how Lithuania knows anything is real anymore.

-

"Brothers? No," Finland says, shaking his head slowly. "They were closer than brothers. Sometimes I almost thought they were the same person in two bodies."

"What happened?"

He looks away uncomfortably. "Trouble maintaining boundaries, I guess. After they split they still argued about whose stuff was whose. You know Vilnius?"

America knows Vilnius, but he also knows this doesn't answer his question.

-

"Come to Coney Island with me!"

Lithuania protests, saying, "I have to work,” but America just says "Take a day off! You can have a day or two off, right? Just, come with me; I'm your boss here so I can tell you when not to work."

Lithuania shrugs. "Why do you want me to come?" he asks. "Is Canada busy?"

"Psh, Canada burns like a lobster. No, I want you to come because you're you! You need to get out more, you just work inside all the time and you're getting pale. I want you to have fun. You should enjoy my place, there's a lot to enjoy here. And of course I need company."

 _Of course,_ Lithuania thinks, but he smiles and ducks his head in concession.

At America's insistence, they ride the carousel with the painted animals, and for lunch they eat Coney Dogs.

"They're so expensive!" Lithuania says when he finally sees what they are, and America says "Oh, whatever, it's the only price we're going to get out here, right? Besides, it's a Coney Dog!"

Lithuania looks at him skeptically

"Look, you just have to try one, and you'll see that it's worth it."

Surprisingly, he does.

"But I think they've fixed the prices, America; they know we can't go anywhere else, so..."

America frowns. "Stop thinking about it so much, you’re giving me a headache. It's no big deal. Come on, let's make a sand castle!"

So they do.

They barely finish, still putting the finishing touches on the towers, when the waves creep up high enough to pull their castle down, sucking at the base till it topples. America goes swimming then, and Lithuania sits on a towel, watching all the families and little children and America calls out laughing, _Look at me! Look at me!_ And Lithuania says, _Yes I see you, that's impressive, America._ And he giggles a little because America is such a child, and he hasn't enjoyed things like a child in a long time. He needed that.

-

On Tuesday, America goes back to work though. "Congress is in session again," he says, "and they need a babysitter. Can you do the laundry? There's sand all over everything, I just know it." And Lithuania nods, and waves goodbye at America as he drives off.

Liberty, sure, but to do what?

Don't they all have roles to fill?

Russia tells him, all his children are equal, his and Lithuania's and everyone's. Russia tells him they are all one people. Russia tells him he's gotten rid of the class struggle, the oppression, all the inequality and unfreedom of bourgeois society.

It's the opposite of worse here in capitalist America. And yet... and yet. Lithuania is still doing the housework. America is still drinking his nightcaps. Tomorrow will be much the same, and the next day, much the same.

Lithuania isn't unhappy, exactly – he's far from unhappy – but all the same he wonders what independence is.

-

Lithuania sleeps in familiar linen sheets with a big woolen blanket that America gave to him. It has patterns on it that America says are Native American, and Lithuania asks what happened to them, like if he’s America then who is Native America, or is that him? This makes America flush red like he's embarrassed or ashamed, and says he doesn't really know, at least not why these things happened, it was all so long ago... Lithuania thanks him for the blanket and quickly changes the subject.

Winter makes the weight of the wool necessary. He doesn't realize till late one night when he wakes up with his teeth chattering, but before he can even open his eyes he feels something heavy settle over him, someone tucking it around him, a hand lingering over his hair before disappearing.

Was it a dream? He doesn't know, any more.

The wool smells strange and it takes him a few nights to get used to, but he does eventually, and it's not an unpleasant smell.

-

Because it is America’s birthday, Lithuania bakes a cake. When America comes home to see him in the middle of frosting it he says, "No way! Oh, wow! You did have to – you shouldn't have – oh man, this is awesome!"

He grabs Lithuania around the waist again, and Lithuania braces himself for the overenthusiastic lift and being tossed around like a sack of potatoes, but it never happens. Instead America just hugs him. Which, all right, makes him smile. A lot. He pats America's hair, and it feels soft.

"So," America says, letting go. "Can I have some?"

"It's not done yet!"

"Aw, come on, just a taste," and Lithuania laughs, waving the chocolate-icing-covered spatula in warning.

"It's dessert. For after dinner? Just wait." He turns back around to finish the job, still laughing to himself.

Not a minute later, an arm brushes his shoulder as America reaches around to dip his finger in the icing on the cake. Lithuania sees it coming and bats it away with the spatula, turns around to see America grinning, and says, "Hey! Don't touch it!"

America whines "But whyyy? It's my dessert, isn't it?" and reaches again and Lithuania bats it away, except with the other hand America pokes him in the side and he jerks reflexively but pokes back before America can get a swipe in at the cake, and America is bent over laughing. So Lithuania doesn't expect it when he goes for the ribs with both hands and tickles him till he can't breathe.

"Stop it!" he laughs. "This is too much!"

"Say Uncle," America says. "Say Uncle Sam!" Lithuania thinks this is the silliest thing he's heard but there's no other way to get out of this so he says it.

America withdraws, victorious. Lithuania stands there catching his breath, still laughing, and is halfway turned around to finish decorating the cake when he sees America's hand creeping up on it again. So he gives it a smack, and America yells "Hey!" and Lithuania yelps "Sorry!" in a sudden slight panic at the harshness of America's tone.

"I'll get you for this!" and suddenly Lithuania finds himself hoisted into the air, gripped tight around the waist, and plunked down on the counter. He is face to face with America, at eye level, which he's never experienced before. America is laughing and grinning and he actually reminds Lithuania of Poland a lot right now, except his eyes are very, very blue.

"Wha- wha- what are you going to do?"

America chuckles. He doesn’t smell like Poland either; he smells like a tobacconist’s shop, cedar and cigars. "I... I don't know. I hadn't thought it through any further than this. But I've got you now!"

And cotton, and -

Lithuania is still breathing hard and realizing slowly that America's hands are still holding his waist, that he's standing between Lithuania's legs leaning forward to face him

"Oh really?" Lithuania says

\- and mown grass – and in fact if Lithuania squeezed his knees together he'd have him by the waist -

"On the contrary," and he squeezes, sending a jolt up his legs and rushing through his body, " _I've_ got _you._ "

It suddenly seems very quiet. They've both stopped giggling, and America's eyebrows are slightly raised, his triumphant grin transformed into a less-mischievous, somewhat surprised, almost _eager_ , open-mouthed sort of -

 _Oh._

America is kissing him with warm lips and hot breath, his glasses pushing against Lithuania's nose and steaming up from their breathing, and Lithuania realizes he should probably be closing his eyes but by the time he has the presence of mind to realize this America has let go and pulled back, bright red, and is pushing his glasses up his nose in a nervous gesture. "Uh," he swallows, "uh, um." And leather, and – and he tastes like the sea air and like those sweets he carries in pocket.

Lithuania stares at him open-mouthed and yes, still breathless.

"Sorry," America finally says. "That was probably really inappropriate and, um, invasive. I'll, uh" he points over his shoulder to indicate _leave now to be very embarrassed and probably knock my head against a wall._

But he can't move, because Lithuania is still holding him there, his knees around his waist.

"If you'd just, uh," America says, looking down at where he's held fast, but Lithuania just ignores him and leans forward to capture his prisoner's mouth.

-

When he goes back to Russia (because that is how all of Lithuania's dreams end), he brings a sunflower, huge as it is, from his American garden. Even autumn's chill dissipates with the glow of Russia's smile when he sees it. He says nothing to greet him but a soft "Oh, thank you, Lithuania. You remembered. Please, I would like it on the table." And Lithuania trims the stem at the sink, and puts it in a vase, with Russia’s shadow falling over his shoulder.

-

It's been a while, a long while, but somehow they manage to cross paths in Bridgeport on a Tuesday and have a late brunch at the Healthy Food Lithuanian restaurant. Poland orders the buckwheat pancakes and Lithuania the banana blynai from the motherly waitress.

"So, what’s it like, being a Most Favored Nation?"

The sharp white winter sunlight streams in and makes Lithuania look pale. The cook, an older woman full of smiles, brings them their food, and he smiles back. It's good to see a familiar face abroad.

"I mean," he says once she has gone back to the kitchen, "it helps, I guess. America's a nice guy. Really kind. It's not as bad as it used to be in some ways."

"Then how come it's so hard to get a date with you, huh?"

"You know why," he says.

"Like, Liet, just talk to me okay?"

Lithuania doesn't have it in him to be defensive. "I have to earn these things. I have to earn them from everyone whether I want them or not. I'm not getting a living," he stabs a chunk of pancake, "for nothing. I'm still under Russia," what an ugly preposition, "in case you've forgotten. "

Poland gives him a look and it's disconcerting, because Poland doesn't _do_ sad. "I haven't."

When they say goodbye, Poland holds his hand instead of shaking it. "Just make sure that when you're working you're working towards freedom. Stick it to that bastard."

Lithuania sort of gapes at him. "Of - of course." Poland's gaze is almost fierce. He gets this way, sometimes, but it's been a while and it's a little discomfiting.

"Just 'cause, that's the only thing worth working for. But you know that. _Freedom isn't free_ , he singsongs, and Lithuania hadn't realized just how much they shared, even now. But here they are, on the South side of Chicago, so he shouldn't be surprised.

"Yeah. Yeah, thanks, Polska."

"No prob. And don't forget it, Liet." His smile is back and it coaxes out a twin from Lithuania's wind-bitten cheeks.

"You know, it's a good thing she couldn't tell you were Polish," Lithuania says mischievously.

"Hey, you know, that was a while -"

"I was just joking. Hey," and he timidly opens his arms to hug Poland, "it's water under the bridge, you know? That was ages ago."

In response, Poland squeezes him so hard he can't breathe. "Fabulous!"

-

He's on the El headed to the airport when he spots a familiar golden head on the platform. Hardly hoping - but he’s in Chicago, so who else, really? – he sees blue eyes meet his own, and a shock runs through them – him, that is – and America is already dashing toward him, just slipping through the doors.

"What're you doing – ?"

"What're _you_ – ?"

America lifts his hands to indicate the grimy El car walls, and they both laugh incredulously.  
They talk, stopping and starting, low and rushing as if their time could be up any minute. About what, Lithuania for the life of him can't recall, only the blue of America's eyes, the chewed frames of his glasses, the nervous flutter of broad hands with short-clipped nails – only the things he already knew about America, the familiar things – lodge in his memory. It is only a few stops worth of conversation, in fact Lithuania nearly misses his point of departure, and they tumble out of the doors at the last second before America has to run in the opposite direction.

"I have to –"

America’s eyes are regretful, and he'd like to think that his own are understanding, as their grasp on the handshake breaks and America hops on the train going back, back towards where he got on. It screeches away, and Lithuania looks after him, dazed.

-

And they see each other again – across the room at a conference that America and Russia are attending, but Lithuania is not. Lithuania is bringing Russia the papers that toppled from their stack that morning and fluttered down in a white storm, and that Russia pushed him towards (Lithuania tripped, held his tongue, bit it in fact) and told him to clean up and bring to him later.  
Catching his eye, America looks like he's about to say something and Lithuania's heart hammers and yearns suddenly as he remembers golden afternoons gardening and Coney Island hotdogs and the scent of pipe tobacco and cedar, but then someone speaks sharply to America, and Lithuania looks away and down to the papers he is holding, and he hears America respond and Russia's soft, sweet thanks.

That's the last time, for a while. There are a few things keeping Lithuania busy. After all, he promised Poland, and he keeps this promise for America too, and for himself.

-

One day, March 11 1990 to be exact, Lithuania thinks, _This is it. This must be it._

 _This_ is independence.

-

The first thing he does is go home to Vilnius, where someone drapes a flag around him and it is the finest jacket he could imagine wearing on a day like today. There is dancing and hot dumplings sold on street corners, and they sing _Lietuva, Tėvyne mūsų_ with all the lyrics back the way they should be, and it is good, it is the best, he has been waiting for this day for a very, very long time. All those faces in the crowd, they're his, they're his people, they've always known it and they've never once forgotten him.

All he asks is for this exactly: to go _home_ at the end of the day, and curl up in his own blankets, in his own bed, in his own house.

All he asks is to stand beside his people and hear his name.

-

America comes to congratulate Lithuania, when the sun is almost set and he has just sat down to rest after a long, long day. He almost doesn't have the energy to get up and answer the knock at his door ( _his_ door, he will never get over that), except he hears a familiar voice shout "Hey Lithuania! It's me! I know you're home!"

Lietuva opens the door to see an ever-grinning America standing there. "I thought you'd be starving so I brought dinner," he says, and he can see the box of Chinese takeout now, can smell the sweet and sour chicken, and welcomes America inside.

When their informal dinner is over, Lithuania is the first to stand and take both their plates to the sink.

"Hey now," America says. "You can't do the dishes."

"You brought dinner; it's only fair."

"No no no," elbowing through to reach the sink, "I don't think so. You're not going to keep washing other people's dishes, not anymore."

"Now I'm only washing my own?"

America is ahead of him, already scrubbing his own plate. "Hey, welcome to the club!"

Lithuania says, quiet, "You never stopped believing I'd make it, did you?"

America blushes but doesn't break Lithuania's gaze. "Nope. Never stopped."

Lithuania takes the soapy dish from America's hands and sets it in the sink, and before the other nation can protest this breach of equal standing, cups America's face in his hands and kisses him, sweet soft and pressing. His lips speak a dedication, or a thanks, or (Lithuania likes to think) a flower. America backs him up against the counter, lips moving and pressing fervently, wedging a leg between Lithuania's thighs, and Lithuania may have never felt like this before in all his long life. Their soapy hands slip against each other, making damp spots on each others' clothing, the sounds of gasping and chuckling all mixed up in the breath they share.

**Author's Note:**

> [1919 New York Times article on Lithuanian outsourcing potential](http://query.nytimes.com/gst/abstract.html?res=9D0DE1D61F3BE03ABC4C53DFB3668382609EDE)
> 
> [Why Poland and Liet didn't hang out during his first independence](http://www.time.com/time/magazine/article/0,9171,881343,00.html)
> 
> The Lithuanian line in the last part is the first line of [Lithuania’s national anthem](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tauti%C5%A1ka_giesm%C4%97)
> 
> The flowers Lithuania grows in his garden are native to his country (as far as Wikipedia tells me).
> 
> Chicago has a [significant Lithuanian immigrant population](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lithuanians_in_Chicago), an area called Little Lithuania, a Lithuanian language newspaper, even a few people who don't speak English. Chicago is also home to the largest Polish population outside of Poland. The restaurants mentioned, both in Chicago, are delicious and excitingly decorated. I highly recommend them. But I never have had a Coney Dog.


End file.
